


faith has been broken; tears must be cried

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [11]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22858282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.Or.Hilda is confused about the intimacy Mary has recently revealed.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	faith has been broken; tears must be cried

Mary and Hilda are sitting thigh-to-thigh on a limestone bench on the sprawling lawn of Baxter High. It’s a nice Thursday—unseasonably warm with no wind—but it’d be a lot nicer if it were actually spring instead of a preview. As it stands, it’s all brown and mud and melting snow.

They’re both quiet in the quiet. And both quiets are uncharacteristic and strange. They usually chit chat, tease each other, make plans, make fun of students.

Hilda neatly folds the wax paper that had held her tomato sandwich and then places a hand gently on Mary’s wrist, turns it so she can peer at the watch face upside down. Ten minutes left of Mary’s lunch break.

“Something the matter, love?” Hilda says.

“No,” Mary says. She doesn’t have any wax paper to fold because she hasn’t touched any of her food except for the hard boiled egg Hilda had handed her knowing that is usually her preferred appetizer, but which she had looked at and then torn into a few pieces and tossed toward the geese in the fountain in front of them. They’re still pecking around at it as she doesn’t look at Hilda while she repacks all the little packages Hilda had brought for her into the little soft-sided cooler, zips it, reclines back on the bench. “Just thinking is all.”

“About what?” Hilda says.

There’s a long pause. And then Mary looks at her, seems to consider a few things, then says,

“I want to go down to Maryland and see the wild horses soon.” Hilda cocks her head, says,

“What?” 

“Just something I’ve been wanting to do and should get around to doing before—” she stops herself. It looks to Hilda as though she’s rearranging her thoughts after having almost said something she hadn’t wanted Hilda to hear. Mary smiles, an attempt at ironic seduction maybe, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and she finishes, “before you get tired of me.” 

Hilda huffs but then studies Mary’s face for a second. It’s contrivedly blank now, and Hilda is suspicious. She’s not sure what she’s suspicious about, exactly, but she knows something is off. As if Mary isn’t always a half tick off, Hilda reminds herself. But this is offer than usual. Hilda decides to verbally ignore for now and gather more behavioral clues. She says,

“They’re not wild. People colloquially call them wild, but technically they’re feral.” Mary visibly relaxes, says in her regular silky voice,

“Not much of a difference, in my book.” 

“A small distinction, but a distinction nevertheless. Because they were domesticated at one point and then escaped and formed their own society, rather than just existing with no history of being tamed,” Hilda says. Mary narrows her eyes at Hilda, says,

“And I suppose that sort of pedantry means something to you.”

“I’ve lived with Zelda Spellman for over 200 years. Something’s bound to rub off.”

Mary laughs and takes Hilda's hand and squeezes it, says,

“I think I’d rather you took up smoking.”

So maybe it hadn’t meant anything, that little blip of discomfort. Maybe Mary had just been in a mood. She seems to be out of it now.

“No, thank you,” Hilda says. “You’re sure you’re not hungry?”

“I woke up early and had a big breakfast,” Mary says, not quite convincingly.

Hilda now squeezes Mary’s hand, says,

“Ok. I’d better be off. But I’m a little concerned about that horrible cough you’ve developed.”

“What cough?” Mary’s face shows confusion. Hilda elbows her in the ribs gently, says,

“That horrible cough that will prevent you from going to work tomorrow.” Mary smiles:

“Oh! That cough. Of course.”

xxx

They make a weekend of it. Lazily driving down the coast, stopping wherever they are inclined. Hilda doesn’t have the added pressure of learning a new recipe since she no longer has to construct a plausible alternative reason for being away, is able now to simply say, “Mary and I are taking a little trip and won’t be back for a few days.” 

So it’s all cute sea-side crab shacks and making out in the back seat at scenic overlooks.

The wild—well, feral—horses themselves are underwhelming. Mostly just grazing and wandering around oblivious to Hilda and Mary’s presence.

Hilda’s driving slowly through the national park, and she looks over at Mary, can see only her focused and sort of glum profile as she’s looking out the window at a particularly boring group of horses at a pond.

“What did you expect, pet? Herd animals aren’t very exciting, by their very nature. Personally, I prefer cattle.”

Mary keeps looking out the window and hums, says,

“Maybe I really wanted to see the mustangs out west.”

Hilda’s about to say that they’re just as boring, but Mary continues,

“Maybe I really wanted to believe more freedom was possible for an animal who had once been shackled but had rebelled and created a new life for itself. But I guess freedom is just an illusion. You’re always shackled to something, some way of being. The difference is in the choosing. The difference is in whether you have a master or your own nature to contend with and submit to.”

Hilda doesn’t know what has precipitated this deep reflection. As much time as she’s spent with Mary, she doesn’t really know her, know what her traumas are or what she thinks about as she’s trying to fall asleep at night, what makes her tick. And that has been by design. They’d both—tacitly—agreed from the beginning that this is a casual, fun arrangement—surface level and physical. What Mary’s just revealed doesn’t fit within the confines of their established relationship, but Hilda is not so much upset about this development as she is intrigued. Hilda is a person people tell their secrets to, but Mary has never come so close to doing so. She’s thus far been an anomaly in her reticence to share about her inner life. So Hilda wonders mostly “why now instead of any other time?” What’s different about now? She wonders and doesn’t come to a conclusion. Either Mary trusts her now or Mary knows something she doesn’t know about the future.

“But what’s more free than being able to fully embody your nature?” Hilda says.

Mary’s head snaps over to look Hilda full in the face:

“Who decided ‘nature’? Is it socially ingrained or is it inherent? And if it’s embedded in DNA, where did that DNA come from? Slapped together accidentally in a void? Or meticulously planned by a higher entity?”

Mary’s eyes are wild or feral depending on definition, and Hilda doesn’t know what to do with this theological questioning. She says,

“I honestly don’t know. But I do know there’s a white-sand beach in a little cove with a waterfall another few miles away where we could skinny dip uninterrupted.”

Mary has turned away and is again looking out the window. She says,

“Perfect.”

xxx

Mary’s kept her distance in the past weeks, cutting off phone calls with lame excuses, truncating dates by auto-piloting through dinner and then providing rough, quick orgasms. An ambiguously longing look and then a goodbye.

And then finally. Nothing. 

Nothing between Mary and Hilda and so much happening individually at Hilda’s house: tarot readings and mandrakes. And then:

Masquerade. You can fool any friend who ever knew you. Lilith crowns herself Queen of Hell.

Hilda scowls behind her mask.

She hasn’t put every piece together yet, but all the edge pieces are fitted together, and the middle pieces are in piles according to color. It’s an intricate puzzle, but she’s uniquely qualified to put together puzzles.

Lilith looks like Mary Wardwell. Has acquisitioned her face. And if Hilda is guessing right, the demon has been acquisitioning the woman’s face for some time. 

Hilda is incensed.

But she’s also intrigued.

If what Hilda is suspecting is true, Lilith, Queen of Hell, had found her worthy to consort with. Lilith had wanted her and had found a way to have her. Had enjoyed her and enjoyed her until she couldn’t anymore.

The real actual Mary Wardwell deserves her own life and agency in her own right, and Hilda’s not sure how feasible this might be.

But. 

Doesn’t Lilith deserve the same? Shouldn’t she be allowed to be loosed from the confines of an unequal partnership with Satan?

Feral, Hilda thinks. Once forcibly domesticated but now making her own way. Different from wild if only slightly. Pedantic distinctions that Mary—Lilith—appreciates in other people, or maybe she doesn’t.

xxx

Hilda’s always had a rather excitable bladder. And there’s been a lot of excitement.

She’s washing her hands in the ladies room, and Mary—Lilith?— is suddenly there draped against the wall next to the paper towel dispenser.

“I never meant to deceive or hurt you,” Lilith says with Mary’s mouth.

“But deception and hurt are all you’re capable of,” Hida says. “It’s not your fault, ultimately. But I’m done with you regardless.”

There’s a lot that Hilda’s trying to process. She knows that Lilith is also trying to process, but Hilda’s priority must be herself and her own wellbeing.

“I know we’ve had a good time together. And I will continue to treasure the memories of our adventures together. But. Please don’t contact me except in case of emergency,” Hilda says. 

Lilith/Mary nods, says,

“You’re the only one I’d trust in an emergency situation.”

Hilda believes it, but she’s still suspicious.


End file.
